Archive for the 'writers block' Category
Writer’s Block & the Curse of the Orange Beads

orange-bead-rose.JPGWhen I was four years old, my older cousins – all boys – came over and my father took us to the neighborhood hobby shop. I suspect that the only reason I was included was my mother wanted me out of the house for a while. My father was taking the boys to get model rocket making materials – model rocketry was one of my father’s passions, and he was introducing the boys to it. Being only four and female, I did not fit into the plan.

At the shop, I was bored with the squares of balsa wood and tubes of glue they were poring over, but I was in rapture over a huge case of slim little phials containing beads in every color imaginable. I wanted those beads!

The boys were heading for the register. I stopped my father and begged for the beads. No, no, no. There was pleading on my part met by skepticism. But what are you going to do with them? MAKE THINGS! You won’t make anything with them. He was probably thinking I was too young, but I didn’t see it that way.

I WILL TOO MAKE THINGS! My father relented. Okay, you can have ONE color. If you make things with that, we’ll come back and you can get more.

How could I possibly pick just one out of that endless array of color? I hemmed and hawed. My father told me to hurry up while he tried to corral the boys, who were chasing each other in the aisles.

Finally I chose: orange.

I remember the car ride home so vividly. It was late afternoon, probably late summer. It was still warm but the sun had that orangey gold September angle that I love to this day. I was sitting in the back seat, holding my little orange phial before me as if it were a candle, or maybe a chalice. All around was that orangey gold light. I was so excited. This was just the beginning. Soon I would have a rainbow of beads and I’d be making all kinds of fantastic things.

It didn’t turn out that way. I’m not sure what happened. My mother probably didn’t want me to play with them out of fear they’d end up in my mouth, or maybe I just didn’t know what to do with them, I don’t know. But I didn’t have materials to make jewelry. And ultimately I wasn’t inspired by only one color of beads. What had inspired me in the store was the array of color, and possibility.

So the phial of orange beads ended up at the bottom of the family junk drawer. I remember unintentionally digging them up several times in the years that followed. Always they were a symbol of guilt and shame. I didn’t make anything with them. I wasted them. I didn’t follow through.

It never dawned on me to pick them up and make something with them when I was a little older. Instead, I felt I had already failed, which made me feel bad. And feeling bad made me want to push them out of sight.

Meanwhile, my cousins – sons of a high school art teacher – were growing up with all the resources of an art supply store at their fingertips. Oils, acrylics, canvas, cameras, tripods, clay animation equipment, sculpture tools, their own darkroom . . . plus every musical instrument imaginable. I was writing stories on notebook paper and illustrating them with crayons while they were making movies, performing their own music and having one-man art shows at the county art gallery.

I was a little girl with a strong creative vision of my own, and although I didn’t make anything with the beads, I was active creatively in my own right. But I couldn’t help comparing myself to my cousins and feeling inferior. Whatever I did and whatever recognition that brought me seemed rinky-dink next to them. My art was child’s play – it might be good for grammar school but it wasn’t good enough for the real world.

Time passed and I forgot about the orange beads. When I turned forty they came up in a meditation on my creative block. For the longest time, I’ve been feeling guilty and ashamed for “not following through” on my creative vision, for “being unproductive” and basically wasting it. Not for lack of trying, of course. Just not breaking through the wall.

I realized that everything I’ve been feeling about my “failure” as a writer, I felt as a child about those damned beads.

More than that, I’ve been stuck in that hobby shop story — longing for the freedom and array of possibility with which to create grand and fantastic things but meeting only skepticism and relatively meager resources until I prove myself worthy.

I haven’t proven as an adult that I will make things. Somewhere along the line, I stopped believing that I can.

Not that I have given up. Quite the opposite. I’ve been obsessed with the dream of becoming a full-time novelist. Unwisely, imprudently, incorrigibly obsessed. But I see now that my dream is the equivalent of earning all the beads in the case so that I am finally free to express my creative vision. In the here and now, however, I am always trying to make something with the orange beads. I’ve been so caught up in trying to satisfy externally set prerequisites that I haven’t allowed myself the freedom of opening the door to inspiration, allowing fallowness and flow in kind, and expressing whatever comes in. I haven’t allowed myself to enjoy my creative work in the moment and to just BE.

No wonder I’ve been stuck at the gate.

But I can stand now and look into the shadow of shame and self-doubt. My creative expression has been blocked. What has the block given me? Well, it has driven me to look deeper than I would have looked if my expression had flowed into the world without resistance. It has driven me to look within and to seek a transformative path. Maybe I have something more valuable to say than I would have said otherwise. Maybe the block has been an alchemical flame.

I accept the gift of the flame and release the idea that I need to fulfill prerequisites to prove myself worthy of expressing my creative vision in the world. Nevertheless, can we say that I made something with the orange beads by writing this post? ;)


The days stream by me, wisps of clouds. My thoughts play vigorously in my head, meaning so much to me but making no impression in the outer world. There is a chasm between where I reside and what I manage to express.

Since I am currently unable to marshal my thoughts and bring them out through the front door, I will go round the back. I will share some of my dreams.

A friend and I have taken to sharing dreams, at first with each other and then in a small group. We both believe that, at this critical point in history, sharing dreams is worthwhile. We each possess within us little mysterious fragments of truth. The idea is to share and share alike, because you never know what your fragments may mean to someone else. And you never know how someone else may be able to shine meaning onto the pieces you have.

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, the day Uranus stationed direct, my friend had an epic apocalyptic dream – a standout dream of a lifetime. That dream is not mine to share, but on the same night, I had a small dream in which I saw a city – New York, I assumed – under water so deep that only the top quarter of its tallest skyscrapers was visible. As catastrophic as the scene may sound, in my dream it was peaceful. The water was so placid, so smooth and reflective, it looked like a mirror. On its surface floated dozens of pretty spirals that looked like rubbery decorative things you’d stick to the floor of your bathtub to keep from slipping. There was a profound quiet, like a meadow blanketed in snow. That was all.

Inspired by those two dreams, I have mined my more recent journals for other dreams with apocalyptic/earth change themes. I will post them here over the next few days, although some of them are mildly embarrassing.


I continue to spin. During the day I carry on reasonably, even feeling somewhat optimistic part of the time. But at night I wake in existential terror.

I know have wasted too much of my life floating – listing in the winds and cross currents. I have been clueless about very simple things such as seeing where I want to go in the distance and making my way there bit by bit. I have seen obstacles as endlessly high and perfectly sheer stone walls. Instead of looking for the chink or the crack, I’ve backed off and tread water, hoping for some kind of deus ex machina. And always I have strived give others what they seem to want, defining my relationships in terms of how the other party sees it instead of how it is for me.

All of my deferring, floating, listing and treading water has led me to this point of contradiction. Everything in serious doubt. Nothing as I wanted. The fundamental expression of my life force is blocked. I am choking.

I know the way through this is to take command of my vessel and steer out of these waters. I just need to figure out how. . . since clearly I missed that day in school.